


The Likely Prospect

by Gwerfel



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Friendship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21874204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: "...I believe we are men of a similar nature. We might be better acquainted."Gays on Terror size each other up.Written for the Terror Bingo 2019 fill 'a friendly face'
Relationships: William Gibson/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	The Likely Prospect

### Hickey > Peglar

A ship is very much like a prison, only with more rules. 

That is his impression, anyway, after a month at sea. He’s always been quick to get the measure of things - who to look out for, how to speak. Most particularly, who must be deferred to - in the navy that appears to be everybody. 

When piled into close quarters in large numbers, men divide themselves up by choice - this much he already knew before boarding. No matter the arrangement, they will find themselves a tribe. They might share a native tongue, or church, or hail from the same slum. Anything in common. The navy takes these things out of the reckoning; the choice is made for them and they are split instead by rating, by watch, by mess. 

A place for everything, and everything in its place.

A ship is like a prison, but it is like a village, too. There are boundaries, there is gossip, there are friendships and rivalries, daily triumphs and humiliations. He can conform when the situation calls for it, and besides remembering to respond to his new name, it doesn't take him long to find himself some company; men with whom he has an accord.

Once enough time passes, he finds he might enjoy more than company.

“Have someone show you the ropes,” his mates tell him, hearing that this is his first voyage. That sounds a fine idea, and who better than the captain of the foretop. Ropes are his business, after all.

He's confident about Henry Peglar; he has been watching him closely, listening in. When the other men talk about the women they've had - in that sour hot way men talk when they boast - Peglar falls quiet. He laughs at the right moments and nods along, but Hickey can tell a counterfeit.

And he is reading a book written by a man with a foreign name - though the words are English, Hickey chanced to glance over his shoulder once. He also overheard Lieutenant Irving say something in passing about 'the unspeakable vice of the Greeks'. What's more, Peglar overheard it - Hickey suspects that was Irving's intention - and Hickey saw Peglar's face. Hickey knows another unspeakable when he sees one, even if Irving doesn't.

And so he finds occasion to be on deck between watches and awaits Mr Peglar’s descent. He is a difficult man to cross paths with, they are rarely on the same deck except for meals - and the mess is not the place for this kind of conversation. 

There’s little to do while he waits except to try to look occupied. He mimics inspecting the deck, but christ knows what he ought to be looking for. It's a pity there's no smoking permitted here - another regulation. In addition, there may be no whistling at any time, and the men must always take care to salute the quarterdeck, and they may not sling their hammocks aft or show their palms to an officer. And every moment of it must be tolerated with cheer and good temper. The tobacco and rum ration is so far the only benefit he can see to joining the navy. 

The ship's bell sounds and the captain of the foretop finally climbs down. Hickey watches him with interest, he watches all of the sailors navigating the ropes as the watch changes, quick and nimble as squirrels on branches. 

Hickey once saw a young woman walk across a tightrope tied between two rooftops at a carnival thrown for the queen’s coronation, and he has the same feeling watching the men in the rigging - giddy; expecting a catastrophe. The men of Terror climb much higher, if he looks directly up at the mast it seems to sway against the sky. As much as he loathes the tedious occupation of pummelling rope into planks, he thanks his good fortune that it was not a topman he happened to meet that evening in Bethnal Green. 

The men hit the deck one at a time, light on their feet, hands black with tar. Hickey finds his mark and prepares to advance. 

"Mr Peglar," he says, not too loud.

Peglar looks up, squinting, a little surprised, but he smiles.

"Good afternoon, Mr Hickey."

"What's the view like up there?" He nods up at the rigging, black and rigid against the white sky.

"Very fine indeed," Peglar grins, his eyes brightening. "Open water for miles."

He isn't particularly handsome, but there is something there which Hickey thinks he could find charming. His looks are of no real relevance, not in this matter. There is inclination and there is desire, and though the two do not often align, in his experience one can breed the other given enough proximity.

“Must be cold up there,” Hickey smiles back, “you’ll be glad to get below decks and warm up, I wager.”

Peglar casts his wide eyes forward, to where _Erebus_ sails a few miles ahead, the only blemish on the clear blue line of horizon, and gives a small shake of his head, “Not so cold as it will be once we pass Greenland. I’m grateful for the fresh air and the light while we still have summer at our backs.”

Hickey is calculating a response that may steer the conversation in his favour, when a nasal shout clatters over the deck.

_"Hickey, where are you? You've duty."_

Irritation twitches inside him, but he fixes his expression, smiling still. 

Peglar smiles at him in return, clearly meaning it as a friendly goodbye, 

"It sounds as though Mr Darlington has need of you," he prompts. His earnestness might be interesting, Hickey hasn’t decided yet. The former Cornelius Hickey was very earnest too, and he thinks he might enjoy exploring that line further.

"Oh, he's a capable man.” Hickey waves a hand, “he’ll manage."

Peglar's eyes flicker with puzzlement, like a grey cloud passing over. He's clearly unsure how to reply.

_“Mr Hickey, I need you here now!”_

Darlington is a bitter old curmudgeon, but he wants a quiet life, and if Hickey is slow to report himself for duty then he’ll get a tut and some grumbling, but nothing more. Still, time is running short, he must lay his case quickly.

"Was there something you wanted?" Peglar asks, finally.

“Perhaps there is,” he turns his head, thoughtfully, proceeding with great care. There’s a way of going about it which will usually press the point. It's all very practiced, drawing his gaze slowly upward, a playful turn of his shoulders, almost leaning in. He presses the tip of his tongue against his front teeth.

"What are you trying to tell me, Mr Hickey?" Peglar narrows his eyes suspiciously.

"Only that I believe we are men of a similar nature. We might be better acquainted." He raises his eyebrows and tilts his chin downwards. 

Peglar catches it then, it’s clear in his face, and Hickey feels a leap of anticipation. 

"Are you unhappy with your mess mates, Mr Hickey?" Peglar says, his voice much lower now.

"Not at all Mr Peglar, only seeking some diversity in my society."

Peglar looks at him plainly, all pleasantries vanished. "Then look elsewhere. This is this your first voyage?"

Any excitement quickly recedes. Hickey nods casually, looking away as he does. He isn't worried about anybody watching or listening in, he timed this well enough. 

When he looks back, Peglar's face remains steady, unchanged. 

"Well then," he says. "Some advice." He straightens. It has little effect; they are the same height, and neither of them tall. 

Hickey can read his meaning before he says anything, and it doesn't matter because he has already lost interest in this enterprise. Peglar is obviously one of those moral sorts, and he'd rather not put up with the lecture he's about to get.

"You ought to be more careful," Peglar intones, "it’s a mistake to telegraph yourself in this manner, you’ll meet a sticky end.” 

Hickey pulls his features into a wide smile. 

"Thank you, Mr Peglar," he says, allowing his eyes to crease, "for your kind concern. I shan't forget it, honest men are rare."

He doesn't think Peglar is the kind of man who must have the last word, but he won't permit further conversation. He walks away.

### Peglar > Billy

He put Cornelius Hickey out of his mind almost at once, dismissing the encounter as a foolish mistake on the part of the young caulker. It was bold of him, and stupid, but Peglar was quite sure he’d set him right. 

Henry couldn’t help being troubled that Hickey had chosen to seek him out in the first place, but he told himself that his own behaviour had been above reproach - the conversation had taken place on deck, in broad daylight, nothing out of the ordinary. And even if they had been overheard; nothing incriminating had been said, so perhaps Hickey wasn’t that stupid.

Anyway, they did not meet again, and nor should they have need to. Aside from Sunday services and the mess, their work kept them in different parts of the ship; Peglar above, Hickey below. If Peglar had bruised Hickey in any way by brushing him off, then he did not show it; he did not grow spiteful or quarrelsome, in the way John had once told Henry some men behaved when snubbed.

It was almost a week before he found himself thinking of Mr Hickey again.

Peglar was off watch, and still ploughing his way through Plato when a familiar body dropped down beside him, long legs and bony elbows jostling him along the bench,

“Any prospects?” The man said brightly. 

Peglar snorted, shaking his head indulgently as he carefully closed his book and set it down. If Billy Gibson had a mind to converse then he would have no peace at all. 

“Good afternoon,” he smiles, “how is service?”

“Oh, you know,” Billy shrugged, settling in, “ _aft the most honour…”_

He doesn’t finish the saying, but Peglar chuckles anyway. He is fond of Billy, and has been since they first met on the _Wanderer_ , back in 1840. They’d served almost two years together in America and the Caribbean, before Billy set off for China. They happened to meet once more in the east, only for a short time. Peglar had met John by then, but he was always pleased to see Billy.

“The officers all seem very agreeable,” Peglar says, raising his cup to his lips. “And the steam engines are jolly things, aren’t they? We’ll be grateful when the mercury drops.”

“I’ve no complaints,” Billy smiles amiably, swigging his own grog. “And you?”

“None either, the work is fine.”

“And the library too, I see.” Gibson nods at the book Peglar has tucked under his arm. “I find your new interest in classic literature admirable, I must say.” 

“I didn’t think you were much of a reader, Billy.” Peglar returned, knowing exactly what he means to say, and refusing to engage him. Unlike Mr Hickey, Gibson’s motives are generally crystal clear.

“I’m not. Well?” Billy nudges him, “any prospects?”

Peglar clicks his tongue, “You know my stance on that.”

“Your _present_ stance, yes,” Billy clucks right back, “ _Madam Abstinence_.” 

“You are shameless,” Peglar hides his laughter by tipping his cup and swallowing the remainder of his bitter lemon. 

“Indeed. How is Mr Bridgens, I wonder? Do you blow him kisses from your foretop?” 

“Oh, hush.”

“Besides, I wasn’t asking for _you._ ”

“What is it you’re after?” Peglar hasn’t taken much of an interest this early in the voyage. His work keeps him busy enough for now, he doesn’t need a distraction. He has Plato, after all. 

“A friend, of course.” Billy replies primly. 

“You know you always have my friendship, Billy.” 

“Charming, always, Harry.”

They both grin at each other, then snigger guiltily like a pair of boys. They sit in companionable silence for a while after that, watching the comings and goings of the forecastle. 

“Do you remember the other Billy on _Wanderer_? Billy Wright?”

“Mm, I think so,” Peglar nods, scratching his beard. He’s growing it in for simplicity’s sake, but isn’t keen on the itching while it sprouts. “Red hair? Red face, too, liked his drink.”

“He had a very fine figure,” Billy said, haughtily. “But yes, dreadfully crimson all over. I ran into him in Greenwich before we left.”

“Oh yes?”

“He’s a marine now.”

“No!”

“Yes,” Billy laughed aloud now, wheezing, “you can hardly tell where his uniform ends and his neck begins!”

Peglar is chortling too, “How was he?”

“Still a very fine figure,” Billy said, slyly. 

Peglar knows better than to be shocked, only he wishes Billy wouldn’t take so many risks. 

A bell sounds, and they both stand up, muscles compelled into action like clockwork after years of naval routine. 

“I’ve laundry to do before mess,” Billy pulled a face, “dire in this cold, I’ve been battling chilblains since Scotland. I tell you, the next expedition I volunteer for will be Jamaica or nothing.”

“We’ve the Sandwich Islands ahead of us, think on that.” Peglar pats his arm amicably as they ready themselves to return to duty.

“It’s all I think of,” Gibson nodded ruefully. “Warmth. Keeping warm.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively, trying to get Peglar to blush. An old game, and one Billy never wins. Peglar has too much practice.

“Take care, Billy,” he cautions. 

They both fall quiet and stand back to let a troop of men pass on their way to their duties. Hickey is among them, talking to the ship’s boys, making them laugh. He does not look at Peglar, and Peglar does not look at him, but he sees Billy looking. 

Billy is cannier than Peglar at this sport, he must already have guessed.

“I shall tell you again,” Peglar murmurs, “take care. He’s trouble, is Mr Hickey.”

“The caulker’s mate?” Gibson affects innocence, “I don’t know what you mean.” He pauses, still watching the other men leave. He licks his lips and glances at Peglar, “...what kind of trouble?”

“Insolent,” Peglar says. “Bold.”

“Oh?” Billy rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Well. I’m not looking for a wife.”

Peglar leaves well enough alone. He’ll stick to Plato.

### Billy > Hickey

Billy is refilling the oil lamps. It takes him all over the ship, but he has heard hammering coming from near the gunroom, and the rhythm makes his pulse race. His mouth waters and his nerves catch alight as anticipation builds and he moves towards it, clutching the oil decanter to his chest.

There is a signal they have - or rather, Hickey has - tapping his index finger to his ear if their watches have aligned, meaning they may find some time. If it isn't possible, he will wipe his nose or sniff. This system has suited them very well for a month now, except that it has been almost a week since they last found the slate drawn up in their favour.

Gibson feels boredom like an itch - something that will grow unbearable if not attended to. There is so much time out here, it is almost physical, it stretches as white and limitless as the arctic sea, and every man must find his own way to fill it, or else despair. Some men drink and others learn new crafts, Peglar has his books and Lieutenant Irving his paints. There is only one distraction for Gibson, only one thing that will do, and only one man.

He reaches the gunroom, and there is Mr Hickey, standing idle with a white rag while Darlington caulks the bulkhead, complaining loudly, as usual. Hickey is clearly not listening, but Darlington's back is turned, and so on he goes, drowning himself out with his hammer. Hickey's eyes find Gibson's at once. They are like cut glass, they gleam even in the gathering gloom. He raises a hand and touches his ear, and Billy's heart leaps in his chest, he has to look away, seeing to the next lamp while he swallows his excitement. As he continues on his way to the next lantern, Darlington still grousing and thumping his chisel, Billy glances back and nods at Cornelius to show he has understood. Hickey grins and as he turns and walks towards the wardroom Gibson adjusts his trousers.

It has to be after mess, Billy has already thought of a task which will take him down to the cabin store, for which he has the keys from Jopson. He doesn't know what excuses Hickey gives for his absences, if any. 

Billy eats quickly, but he has a clear view of Hickey across the tables. He sits with the boys and Strong, and he is taking his time over supper. Cornelius is rarely in a hurry for anything. He knows as well as Gibson how many days it has been since their last encounter, how many hours, and he will still make him wait, if it pleases him to. Impatient, Billy finishes his salt pork and gets up to wash the plate. 

Henry is at the washtub too, a new book tucked under his arm as he scrubs. His face is soft and thoughtful, pleasant as always. Daydreaming.

"Good evening," Billy drops his plate into the soapy water. It's not frigid yet, which is a mercy. He doesn't want cold hands later. 

"Oh," Peglar blinks, "evening, Mr Gibson. How goes it?"

"Well enough. Another book?"

"Homer. It passes the time, I suppose."

"Mm." Gibson replies. He wipes at his plate and sets it aside, then takes the dish rag in his palm and swipes his knife and fork through it, bringing them out clean.

"Keeping out of trouble?" Peglar raises his eyebrow at him. He looks out across the deck, pointedly, and Billy doesn't need to follow his gaze to know who he is referring to.

"Of course." Gibson nods. "Don't I always?"

* * *

“How do you know Mr Peglar?” Hickey asks, the moment they have a semblance of privacy.

They reached the hold without trouble, unnoticed. Gibson lights the lamp as Hickey slides the cabin store door closed.

"We sailed together." He says, "My first posting, on _Wanderer_. The one that went to America, and the West Indies."

"America," Hickey says it so low it's almost reverent. He loves to hear about these places, his eyes widen and his face practically glows with imagining. 

“Yes, and in China.” Billy adds, only to boast.

"Ah yes," Hickey purrs, standing closer, malice on his lips, "your _wars_."

Hickey finds it amusing that Billy has seen battle. Billy doesn’t mind, he likes being thought delicate. Part of him yearns to be treated softly, to be kept. It’s an unmanly predilection which he keeps to himself most of the time, but Cornelius smells it on him like a scent, and exploits the weakness mercilessly. Gibson isn't so moonstruck that he doesn't know when he's being indulged, but god help him, he likes that too. 

“What was between you?” Cornelius snaps his attention back, fingers already at Billy's belt buckle,"in China?" 

“Cannon fire.” 

“Don’t be glib.” 

Billy snorts, “Where do you learn these words?”

Hickey tugs hard on the belt, bringing Gibson's hips forward. Cold fingers meet Billy's skin, raising goosebumps on the tender strait between his naval and the thatch of hair above his prick. Hickey looks up at Billy with fierce determination. It is jealousy, Billy realises with a hot swell of joy.

If Hickey knew the truth of what Gibson and Peglar's brief and frantic association had amounted to - that is, a few hurried gropes under coarse blankets, unsure which body part they were even grasping - then he would sneer. And fair enough; Billy and Peglar were barely men yet. Pleasure - or even satisfaction - were beside the point. The point was simply access to another body, and the feverish granting of permission to seek something desperately needed.

He won't say any of this, he won't risk Cornelius delaying things further. Billy doesn't know where Hickey sprang from before appearing on Terror the day they set sail, but he has more filthy tricks than a mollyhouse harlot. If he chooses, he can bring Billy to the pivotal moment and then halt proceedings like its nothing; he knows exactly where to squeeze, where to pinch and twist, he is as precise as a surgeon.

He knows all the places Gibson did not even know he had, did not know could bring him joy. Cornelius hooks his thumbs in, probes with his sharp tongue, makes Gibson sweat and keen and shiver. He can keep Billy suspended between bliss and crushing disappointment, and all without uttering so much as a gasp or a sigh himself. 

In those moments Billy hates Hickey almost as much as he wants him. Billy knows he ought to be ashamed to he brought so low, hauled about and pressed and pried open and chewed over, but he isn't.

It is like that now, as they collide and grind into one another, limbs taut and eyes shut. Billy gulps and chokes, his head so light that stars seem to dance over the coarse blankets on the shelf he's bracing against. The end is near and part of him wants it to last; wants this to be a permanent state. But the part of him that always wins is too eager, and scrambles towards the apex as it sharpens in his gut and surges forward. 

Hickey is never far behind him, and grips Gibson's thighs with increasing intensity, pressing in his fingernails. Billy would like to see his face, see what pleasure looks like on Hickey as they both crest the same wave, but he never looks back. One day perhaps he will. He gasps again, he lists.

They pant together, their breathing aligned. For a moment, as they both recover, Cornelius lays his head against Billy's back, rolling between his shoulders to blot the sweat from his forehead on the thin cotton of Billy's shirt. He relaxes his grip, fans out his fingers and pats Billy's flank, almost tenderly. Billy shivers. 

"Henry and I were only mates," he says as they are re-dressing.

"Like we are mates, Billy?" Hickey snipes at him. He's back to that again.

"No," Billy concedes, "nothing like we are."

It's clearly not enough of a declaration for Hickey, who gives him a cold look, but Billy doesn't clarify his point, because this razor glint of genuine feeling from Cornelius has come as a surprise, and Gibson rather likes it. He should like to see it played out on a few more occasions before he sets those things to rest. He should like to see what Hickey does with it. After all, there is so much time to fill.

He told Peglar he wasn't looking for a wife, and the irony of what Hickey has made of him is not lost. Billy is loathe to call Hickey a friend, either; that would require an easier nature than Cornelius is in possession of. 

This is no time to trouble himself with such trivialities. The agitation in him has been settled, his desires lie still and sleepy in his breast and Hickey has a cigarette for them to share. Cornelius is peaceful too - there is a light in his eyes which is warmer than usual as he inhales the smoke and leans against a barrel, folding his arms. He smiles at Billy,

"Tell me again about China?"

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
